Once we got back to the house with our collection, Mom pulled out the wax paper, set up the ironing board, and plugged in her iron. She invited us to arrange our leaves across the wax paper, then she placed another sheet on top of our design. She pressed the two sides together with the heat of the iron, making our patterns into a collage. After cooling them, Mom displayed our stained glass leaves.
In her book Altar in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor notices that children are very near the earth and know how to walk the earth because they notice stuff that many of us big people forget, so tied are we to our cell phones, our purses, our own thoughts and preoccupied with the concerns of tomorrow. A child, she says, can feel the heat from the sidewalk, can hear the tapping of her shoes on cement, notices a dime dropped in the crosswalk; a child is so near to the earth that a small acorn underfoot might topple her.
Tending children and watching them grow helps one remember a closeness to the earth: noticing leaves that have fallen, a roly poly bug under a rock, moss on a log, a dandelion puffball to blow; playing in the rain or a luscious puddle that has collected; and creating a happy oasis for feet to splash.
And, yes, children also notice the underbelly too, such as the mole that popped up on our older doggie’s head. “It could be a tick,” said Aubrey, as he parted her hair with his fingers for a closer inspection, wanting to nurture and care for her. Or the traumatic time (or two or three times) that our beloved Pointer escaped the backyard and scared us all to death because we couldn’t catch her. At one point we caught sight of her in a neighbor’s yard, chasing a buck. The boys were in panic mode. There were tears and even some wailing. I had to say to them, “I think she will come home.” I couldn’t say I was certain she’d return. My Sisters, we need to let the young ones learn about things that wow us and scare us; the mysteries of life are woven into the earth God has given us.
All Children Need Kindergarten
Humbly, may I suggest that kindergarten has become disconnected from its original meaning? Somehow in our American culture, what should be tiny people’s time for exploring the world has become too often about pushing these delicate seedlings further into adulthood. I’m not sure I’m on board with rigorous standards and goals that seem suited to a more mature audience, like the bigger kids who are not so keen anymore on dressing up as a policeman or singing along with Thomas the Train.
Kindergarten is a German word that is translated “garden for children.” I’m all about that word in its original meaning. Only in the last few years—and I’m sad to admit it—have I celebrated that I’m a growing work in progress.
As a plant in a larger garden, I’ve got some growing to do. Imagine that! I’ve had my share of blight, failure to thrive, curling leaves, and neglect (mostly of my own creation), and yep, I’ve even been trampled by others. Sisters, this awareness means that I now intentionally admit to my kids that I’m not done growing. I tell them that growth is a big renegade choice because I want them to be open to change, to transformation, to exploration without the fear of getting it wrong. Wrong is opportunity, not a forever-state to be lived in.
I once saw a magnet with a quote by the twentieth-century artist Pablo Picasso: “It takes a long time to grow young.” I don’t know precisely what Pablo meant, but I translate the wisdom of those words in my own spiritual way as, “Get past your need to know it all, past your desire for accomplishments, past your need to have it all together. Don’t hide from the light where reality can be seen, even your own faults. Be born again. Let the Spirit blow you where it will. Listen to the wind” (see John 3:1-8).
When I was seven years old, Mom was newly divorced. We lived in a nice but tiny rental house on a hilly street. Before serious recreational biking or 10K races were popular, Mom used Saturday housework, some gardening, and walking our block to stretch her legs and mine.
Over the big hill at the end of the street was a small piece of heaven on earth. For the owners of the lot, it wasn’t merely pretty grass, I’m sure. It was their meticulously tended lawn. I could have cared less about the official variety of deepest green grass, which I’d never seen before; it was a carpet. Each time we passed the house, I looked around to avoid trouble, then waited for Mom’s nod. I ran full-born into the yard, laid down, and moved my arms and legs to create angel wings, as if I had fallen on a bank of fresh snow. Strikingly green, the millions of soft blades smelled delicious and were, what I imagined they would be, cloud-soft. The psalmist noticed the spiritual connection between God’s care and lying upon the earth: “[The shepherd] lets me rest in grassy meadows” (Psalm 23:2).
When I was a child, being outdoors slowly revealed the language of something bigger than I was.
The first real garden Mom and I created was only a few years later. By that summer, I’d finished fifth grade. Mom was dating a kind man named Pete, who’d grown up in a poor family. They had no indoor plumbing and picked cotton for a living. He never wanted to pick cotton again, but he loved to grow gardens. He tilled a patch of ground for us in a corner of the backyard. Mom and I began our work with plants and seeds. We had seeds for tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, peppers, and squash. I desperately wanted to plant asparagus, so Mom purchased the seeds. Once our rectangular patch was freshly turned toward the black soil, we put our seeds in the ground.
I was proud when my ferny-looking plants began to grow. I dreamed of seeing the long stems of asparagus, picking them, and eating them. There are, however, times in your life when, if you are lucky, you begin to understand that not everything will happen when you believe it should happen or want it to happen. Life disciplines us. I was full-on disappointed when I learned that the asparagus plant takes about three years to mature enough to bear the luscious green stalks that are ready to eat. Three years seemed an eternity to an eleven-year-old.
Later that summer, Mom married Pete. The plan was to move to his home, a modest house he’d built, which sat on almost one full acre of land. I was devastated at the thought of leaving behind my asparagus, so Pete carefully uprooted my plants and relocated them to his massive garden. My beloved asparagus survived the transplant. By the third year, Pete announced the asparagus was ready to be picked. For years, each spring, that asparagus sprouted its green beginnings, grew tall and wispy, and gave us real-deal asparagus. I had never seen it outside a can. Patience and slowly maturation—these are the revelations of growing gardens.
Settled in this new life with a bigger yard, I watched my sweet Momma plant her own favorites. She had pampas grass lining the driveway. Now when I see the newer, endless grasses around my town, in yards, and around businesses, I think Mom would love them. Her love of poinsettias led Pete to build a heated greenhouse, which also helped with early spring plants. Mom also got a few fig bushes, whose leaves, I discovered, are scratchy. I was finally able to grasp the sad hilarity of the first man and woman in the garden that God gave them, pitifully sewing together scratchy fig leaves to cover their poor choices. Separating ourselves from God is so miserable.
My parents were local foodies before it was hip. They had survived the Great Depression, and Mom wouldn’t tolerate a finicky eater. My niece says she’d never know the joys of pressure-cooked greens if Meemaw hadn’t made her eat them. From the time of that first garden that Mom and I planted in the back of our rented house, my summers included a kitchen full of vegetables lined up along counters and windowsills. Window units couldn’t keep up with the hot steam of the old pressure cooker and the canning chores, but in winter, we had a taste of the summer: green beans, pickled cucumbers and okra, tomatoes, corn relish, and syrupy strawberry preserves. The old pear tree’s fruit was tough when picked fresh, but with cinnamon and sugar, Mom’s canned pears were yum-yum.
After a busy and hot day in the canning kitchen, we rested. Hearing the intermittent ping of the full Kerr jars was a kind of music for those who know that the preparation, the work, the effort is now blessed. Well done, good and faithful servant. Remember the summer, the garden, its smell an
d taste, its sacred fruit and lessons. Pass the deep burgundy chunks of strawberry, straight from the gifted Preservestress: “Taste and see how good the LORD is!” (Psalm 34:8a).
Move Through the Earth
When I was a child, being outdoors slowly revealed the language of something bigger than I was, something that helped me see myself and all of us humans as part of a larger world to explore. We often neglect the impact of the natural world and its potential to transform.
When I began to read chapter books to Penn, one of the first we read was the English classic The Secret Garden. Little and sickly Mary Lennox is born into a wealthy family. She is spoiled, neglected, and often left alone. When she loses her parents in a cholera epidemic, she is moved into Misselthwaite Manor with her wealthy and absent uncle. Mary discovers a dormant garden walled off and forgotten. As the unhappy and emotionally stunted girl visits and tends the garden secretly with a farm boy, its rejuvenation begins to heal Mary and her sickly, unhappy cousin, Colin.
Sisters, in my tradition, God took on flesh and walked the earth, picking wheat grains, talking of sowing seeds and yeast that rises and vines and the vineyards they come from and weeds and fish and sheep and even dogs. God, as one of us, climbed mountains, swam, and sat in boats and by lakes. This embrace of the creation is an example of what we, too, need. Being aware of the creation around us is one of the gifts God has given us for wholeness.
One of my brothers, Tom, who was sixteen when I was born, raised beagles to hunt with. I loved the litters of white-and-lemon-colored puppies. Soft fur, milky breath, closed eyes. Tom also brought home fish to clean and cook. He took me sledding, boating, camping, fishing, and swimming at nearby lakes. There was nothing quite like the exhausted feeling of a long day outside. Even after a rare day of biting cold in the South and peeling off wet clothes because there were no Polartec fabrics, my body felt satisfied. Or the times I’d come home with my ponytail matted after hours of swimming, the wind having blown against my face through the car windows all the way home. It was a good tired. I see it in my children when we foster their outdoor adventures, whether it is a bike ride around the block or a day of hiking the woods or picking up trash at the river park.
My uncle Paul and aunt Mary owned a rather ramshackle farm and raised horses. As we walked through the barn one day and I watched my uncle tend the horses, he promised, “I’m going to make you a horse woman.” I was so excited and so scared because I knew nothing about horses except they were absolutely beautiful. He died when I was seven, but I’d already gotten my shoes dirty at their old dilapidated place, ate the fried eggs cooked on my aunt’s old stove, hunted Easter eggs near the barn, sat on the old tractor, and fell in love with the horse trough. And then there were the family legends that were passed down: an enormous snake skin found draped on the branches of a giant oak near the old farmhouse and that time my mom was eaten alive with chiggers while picking blackberries and then kicked over her bucket when she saw a snake. I felt a deep loss when my uncle died, an ache of regret that I missed learning a very important language. I’m not a real cowgirl, but I have a serious collection of boots.
Let them slice the onion (with supervision), let them cry, let their eyes burn, and then hand them a paper towel.
Not long ago, we took our four boys on a trail ride. It wasn’t an extreme, daredevil experience, but they had to keep their feet in the stirrups, handle the reins, hear about the wild hogs that roamed the area at night, watch how close the horses’ feet came to the edge of a narrow and higher path, and sit in a place they’d never been before, which can later feel like a pain in the butt. I’m talking saddle sore.
Let them get sore, tired, scared, nervous. Let them struggle with new stuff, without my hovering over their possible missteps. Let them get their hands very dirty, let their feet go bare, watch them fry an egg. Let them slice the onion (with supervision), let them cry, let their eyes burn, and then hand them a paper towel. These things happen, you say, but wait until you smell this punishing vegetable sautéing with butter and garlic. Child, you will thank God.
That’s the way I felt when I got brave and bought lettuce plants. When they were ready, I showed the boys how to chop off the leaves. I placed the vivid green leaves in my bright red colander to wash them. I stared at the little bundle with pride and admiration, not because I’d grown them, but because God was in that moment of creativity, food, and nourishment for the spirit.
Nurture Something with Your Kids
For years the matriarchs of the family grew a plant they called “devil’s back,” short for “devil’s backbone.” It’s considered a subtropical succulent with variegated leaves. My mom was rather nutty about her devil’s back and proudly offered cuttings as if she were sharing sourdough starter. It was a thing to get a cutting and have your own plant, and there are still plants from her original growing in all my siblings’ homes. That may be about forty years of plant.
Watching people grow stuff is important. I’ve already mentioned the way I learned, but I believe nurture and empathy go together. You have to cultivate these traits. Loving God and loving neighbor isn’t a suggestion; it’s a necessity for us to grow beyond ourselves. And I feel certain God didn’t place us in a garden to ignore the plants and animals. Here, name this thing! said God (see Genesis 2:18-25). I know that naming each of my children was an intimate act; it connected them to me and to our family, especially since we chose family names. I started a relationship of love and care before I held a baby in my arms.
I love dogs. In my kitchen, there is a small sign on a shelf that says, “Dog Hair: Both a Condiment and a Fashion Accessory.” Maybe you’re not a “dog whisperer,” but let your kids try giving to someone, especially after they begin to wean from their cherished lovie.
One of our boy’s pre-K teachers had a bearded dragon named Hazel in her classroom. Wyatt was in love with Hazel. She even wore clothes and came to our animal blessing at the church. I blessed a bearded dragon—in clothes. The next year, Wyatt’s new teacher had a baby bearded dragon that the class called Flame. There has been a strong and steady request from Wyatt and Aubrey for a bearded dragon in our home. I don’t know. Flame’s keeper said the reptile isn’t that tough: she’s afraid of dead mice. That means more trips to the pet grocery for grasshoppers. I can barely keep enough food for school lunches.
Along with our dogs, cats, and my husband’s fish, we’ve planted tons of milkweed plants in our yard to attract monarch butterflies, whose population has declined by 80 percent from their peak in 1997. Our boys have learned to spot the monarch caterpillar, collect the leaves, and feed them until they form a chrysalis at the top of the critter keeper. The boys get to watch them emerge completely different, totally transformed.
Relationships Transform Us
When we adopted our Pointer, I noticed she had an unfortunate habit of sucking on cushions, pillows, and throws. She not only sucked on the fabric but also nibbled tiny bits of cloth at the corners and made holes. Great, I thought. Just what we needed. A new family member who likes to destroy stuff.
I knew she’d been found near Lake Norrell, half-starved and flea-bitten. Whether she’d been dropped, was gun-shy and bolted, or was on a wild run and got lost, we’d probably never know, but it was clear she needed someone to find her. I’d never had an adult dog who chewed, so I called one of my friends who’s a dog whisperer and asked her what might be bothering this sweet girl. She told me that dogs will suck and nibble as a result of stress, so the answer was love and affection. Nori was shy about eating and was not a dominant dog. Over time, we coaxed her with food and gave her plenty of space. Gradually, this forty-pound dog would sit in my lap, cuddle, stare at me with her honey-gold eyes, and shed on me with her gorgeous white and chocolate coat.
Nori doesn’t suck on the furniture anymore. I think she knows she’s home. I call her Nori-ella. I didn’t really adopt her; she adopted me. She keeps me from chewing holes in the pillows too.
Notes
Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World (New York: HarperOne, 2009), xviii and 62–63.
CHAPTER 11
WOMENADE: SO THAT HAPPENED
Ask, and you will receive. Search, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives. Whoever seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door is opened.
—Matthew 7:7-8
We are the champions, my friends
And we’ll keep on fighting ’til the end.
—Queen
It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. OK, I borrowed that famous opening. Thank you, Charles Dickens, for setting up the description of my disappointment. You are the patron saint of hardships, like debtor’s prison. (Please don’t tell my husband I recently bought two more pillow covers from Pottery Barn.)
Each year, I plan a family beach getaway. Water is my thing. I crave it. I was born under a water sign, cancer the crab, and one of my besties was too. She embraces the crab and swears by beach rejuvenation as an annual pilgrimage. Of course, shells, water, and getting soaked is also a sign of new life for us Christians.
I make reservations several months in advance somewhere on the gulf coast around the long stretch of road known as 30A, which is advertised on bumper stickers affixed to the backs of mom cars across the south, whispering, I was there, Sister, and I’m going again. It’s a twelve-hour jaunt with four kids, although our friends swear it only takes ten hours. As with most vacations, our family thinks about it, talks about it, and looks forward to it—for months. We’ve made some big, beautiful memories along the seashore, and we’ve had a few Oh, wells.
Stepping on Cheerios Page 11